Anything Can Happen in the French Riviera
by MikaelaLovesMusic
Summary: Takes place before Heist Society. Gabrielle's on a pickpocketing rampage in the French Riviera. Nobody is safe! What- or who- will it take to stop her? And will she finally find Sven? Rated T for slight language. May become a story, but for now, oneshot.


**This is my first attempt at a Heist Society fanfic. If all goes well, then there could be more to come!**

**Gabrielle was one of my favorite characters in Heist Society. (Which, BTW I have yet to read _Uncommon Criminals_.) It was only right for her to have her own story. This takes place before Heist Society. This is what our dear Gabi was doing while Kat was at school and the rest of the crew was doing their own thing.**

"We're engaged!"

My mom lifts up her left hand and shows me the huge diamond ring. I swear, her left ring finger is already sagging from the various engagement rings and wedding rings she has worn throughout her life. She can never get a proper ring tan because of all the husbands she's had.

All the "daddies" I've had to have.

I look up to my new "daddy". He's wearing a full-blown suit, even though it's about a bajillion degrees outside and he kind of just looks like a dork. I do approve of the Armani, the Rolex watch, even Mom's new ring. The way I judge things: if they're tempting enough to steal, then they are good quality. Let's just say I have a sixth sense when it comes to these things.

He hardly even looks at me. Ok, so maybe this dude is a count or a duke or whatever. But I could rob him of his clothes within thirty seconds or less. Strip him down to his boxerbriefs (I could tell he was a boxerbriefs-type guy. Another sixth sense I have.) And all I would need was a toothpick and pliers. How would he feel about that now?

I bite down on my lip, recently coated with new Estee Lauder lip gloss. I close my eyes for a few seconds, resisting that extremely tempting urge to follow through with the Operation: Naked Duke/Count/Whatever I had just formed in my head.

"So you didn't want to warn me ahead of time? For goodness sakes, Mom, you just met this guy last month!" I cry with exasperation. After looking at the ring again, all I want to do right now is take out the laser built into one of my hairpins and burn that thing right off her ring-abused left ring finger.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. He just proposed to me, and it felt right and..."

"Mom. Deja vu. Really? How many times have you said that. And how many times have I said this? Can't you see this is just an endless circle? Do you have to go through all the men on this planet before you are finally satisfied?" Ok, so maybe I was pushing it. But I couldn't help it. I deserved to be angry right now.

My mother's face puffs up with a mixture of embarassment and anger. "Gabrielle! You will not speak that way to me. Go to your room! But first- apologize to Matthieu."

I glance at the man in front of me, who will _still_ hardly even look at me. "I'm sorry," I mutter, walking towards the stairs.

"Sorry you're going to be divorced in a few months," I shout from the top of the priceless marble staircase. Laughing, I run to my room. Within a few minutes, I have changed into a black pencil skirt, black tights, six-inch high heels (a little short for my tastes), and a sparkly top. It takes me under a minute to brush some eyeliner, eyeshadow and mascara on my eyes and less than a second for me to throw some red lipstick into a large Dolce and Gabana bag. I slip off the heels and throw them into my bag.

My mom would be up soon, probably in about three minutes. Calculating in how long it would take her to stop making out with her new fiancee and get her ass up the stairs.

I had to get this show on the road. I climb through the window, making sure not to tear my tights. I had just stolen these, and it would take far too much time to steal another pair. My room was on the second floor, but scaling down the mansion would be easy. There were plenty decorative sconces to grab onto and lots of building texture to rest my feet on.

Within a few minutes, I am sneaking past the garden guards, running through our rose garden (more like forest, really), and hopping over the gate.

Ugh. There's still the mile long driveway. I'm silently cursing to myself, until a gardener's cart catches my eye. I run as fast as I can and hop on, driving like a maniac until I'm safely out of my mansion's gates.

I hail a cab to the main city. This was the French Riviera. It wasn't my turf yet, but today it would be.

Maybe this was routine. I guess it was. Everytime my mom has announced a new engagement, I seemed to let loose in whatever city we happened to be living in at the time. No one was safe. I would clean out everyone's pockets today.

My cab drops me off in front of a classy hotel. I normally would refuse to get ready in a public bathroom, even if it was a five star hotel bathroom. But today, I didn't have time and I needed to be out there, _mingling_.

I touch up my makeup, pull my skirt up and my shirt down, brush my hair until it's flowing like a waterfall down my back. Last but not least, I slip on some Bvlgari sunglasses.

It was time.

Within the first block, I have pickpocketed five men. For some reason, I always seem to pickpocket attractive, polished men. I think it's retaliation to all my "daddies" who never seem to care about me. Besides, at the rate my mommy-dear was going, all of these men were soon to become my daddies anyway. I laugh quietly to myself as I push past another man, his eyes on my chest and not on my hands.

I slip out my handheld pocketknife and run it along the bottom of a man's Valentino suit. It's a shame to ruin it, it is quite beautiful, but I know that is where his wallet is. When money is mixed with designer brands, there's no stopping me. I know where the wallet will be, I know where the car keys will be. It's what happens when you grow up with a mother that refuses to even look at or say the name of any brand that is not of the highest quality and luxury. It's ridiculous, but it's what I've grown up to. Besides, it's the daddies' fault. They spoil her to extremes.

Another plan forms in my head. Before it is even fullly thought over yet, my legs do something they would normally never do, even in heels this high: they trip over the concrete and my body is thrown onto a man wearing a $6,000 Brioni suit. My blouse falls down a little too low and my skirt rides up a little too high. But it's enough. The man smells like cigars and old leather, but I grab onto his suit jacket for "support" anyway. While he's busy taking in my shirt that's gone out of whack and more importantly the skin that has been exposed, I reach into his pocket, pick it clean and throw the goods into my purse as I bend down to pick it up.

Well, time to do as the French do. "Merci monsieur!" I exclaim, purposely making my French accent thick. I lean forward and give him two kisses on his rough cheeks and a hug to top it off. He's more focused on my boobs pressing against his chest than my hands sneaking into his briefcase and emptying the expensive little items inside. He is still awestruck as I quickly dash away, laughing quietly to myself. I was having way too much fun with this.

I walk past two liquor stores during a few more scams, and another idea forms in my mind. Another urbane well-dressed man is coming towards me on his way to work wearing a Balenciaga suit. I smile to myself. I let my legs totter around as I make my way over to the man. "Bonjour monsieur, vous êtes très beau!" I exclaim, letting my words slur just like I've seen intoxicated French women do at the bars. I add a giggle at the end to finish it off.

My hands grab onto his suit. He is surprised at first, but he looks quickly down my chest and at my face and looks around like "wow, isn't it great how women just throw themselves all over me!" I almost laugh. This man was arrogant. He definitely needed to be picked clean.

Another drunken laugh escapes my mouth. I grab onto his wrist. Oops! There went his watch. And then both wrists. There went his golden Gucci cufflinks! I feel around again. "Vous voulez prendre un verre avec moi?" Want to get a drink with me?

Finally! I've found his pocket. And for the grand finish. There went his Hermes leather wallet!

"Naturellement belle femme!" Of course beautiful woman! Not even trying to hide his glee, he leads me into a nearby bar. I stumble sloppily in his wake, grabbing his hand for more "support".

Once we're in the bar, it's go time. "Excusez-moi monsieur!" I cry, a giggle coming over me and a hiccup just to finish it off. I duck into the women's bathroom, close the door and begin to collapse into more giggles. After a quick touch-up on my makeup, I climb out the window and hit the streets once more.

After pickpocketing several blocks, I empty my full bag into a stash I will return to later today, with a much bigger sack. Then I duck into a quaint little French bakeshop, the exhilarating smells of fresh chocolate and croissants wafting through the air.

Could I steal a croissant...? The answer is yes. Would I? Yes again. Yes I will. I at least deserve a freaking croissant after everything that happened today. Besides, all my money was in my stash.

I look up from the chocolate croissants to see a boy, maybe a few years older than me, helping a customer at the register. His hair is sandy blonde, and his eyes are a startling sea blue. His plain white shirt is a little too tight around his arms, and he's wearing an apron around his waist. A cross his tattooed on the inside of his arm. This boy is plain. He's not handsome like all the men I've just pickpocked on the the street. But for some reason, even just looking at him makes my heart flutter a little.

No. I was Gabrielle. I could have any boy I wanted. An average Joe French boy that works in a pastry shop was not what I wanted. I was destined to marry a prince.

"Salut, je peux vous aider?" the boy says. I translate quickly: Hi, can I help you? But his attitude very strange. He is not looking at my legs, my boobs or even my hands. He's looking at my face.

"Oui, s'il vous plaît puis-je avoir un croissant?" I stumble over the words, and for the first time, I am not slick. I am not sexy. This simple French boy is turning me into mush. My American accent is hardly disguised.

"Do you speak American?" the boy asks, his voice tingling with a slight French accent.

I nod. His English is even more beautiful than his French.

No! I wasn't supposed to be thinking about my mark like this. I was breaking every thief law in the book by even thinking what I had just been thinking.

He laughs a little, my stupid nerves twitching even more. "One croissant, coming right up." He turns back the corner. I pinch myself, letting my nails dig into my skin a little. Get yourself together, Gabrielle! It's just one stupid naive French boy! Just finish the job at hand! Steal the freaking five euro croissant already!

"Here you are," he says, handing me back the croissant wrapped in some tissue paper.

_Finish the job_, I shout to myself. "Can I have a plastic bag please?" I stumble again, my bottom lip quivering a little. I've stolen from the Smithsonian. Why was it so hard to steal a buttery French baked good?

"Of course." He turns around to the counter, sorting through the cabinets, and producing a plastic bag from the back. "Here you are-"

But I'm already gone.

I hide in the shadows of the outside pillars, not able to tear my eyes away from the boy in the bakeshop. He has the plastic bag and is looking around from me. A little anger washes over his face when he realizes I had just made off with one of his croissants.

Before my common sense can kick in, my legs are leading me back to the register.

My jaw is frozen again. What was happening? "I... I'm sorry. I realize I forgot to pay," I lie, some of my character _finally _being salvaged in what seems like a war with myself.

He smiles a little, dimples breaking through his cheeks. Damn those dimples! I'm back to mush again. "It's okay. You're bag is still safe," he adds, gesturing to the plastic bag he had just left on the counter.

I dig through my black bag, desperately trying to find some loose change that had fallen out of the wallets I had pocketed. My heart is pounding as I feel his eyes on my face. From the corner of my eye, I study him once more. Toussled blonde hair, those blue eyes, a half-smile that made you think of a puppy dog.

I manage to produce a few coins and one bill. "I'm really sorry," I stutter again. What was this? I just want to slap myself right now.

He half-smiles again as he puts the money in the register and gives me change.

"Can we start again? I'm Gabrielle," I manage to say, gathering up the courage to hold out my hand. My fingers tingle a little as he shakes it back.

"Stephen," he says, smiling a little more.

"Sven? You're German?" His accent was so thick on his name I could only guess what he was saying. Was I losing my French too? This was a catastrophe! Damn French boy!

He laughs a little. "I'm half British and half French. Stephen is my British name. Stephane is my French name. And I guess, Sven is my German name now." He laughs again. "It's nice to meet you Gabrielle."

I like the way my name falls off his tongue. What? How could I be thinking this? I must really be drunk or something!

"Ok, Sven." I laugh. "Thanks for the croissant," I smile, slipping the change he had given me into his tip bowl.

He looks at my face again. I'm still pretty amazed he's only taken two glances at my boobs so far. Man. This boy was good. "I'm about to go on my break. Would you like to have some coffee with me?"

Somehow, my flirting skills kicked in again. "Well, I sort of have to go soon but..." I smile a little and let my voice trail off.

"It'd be on the house," he says, and winks. Oh god. That wink. I hope the blush I get right now matches with the blush I had put on earlier today. So he wouldn't notice.

I laugh again. "Okay. Is that so I don't steal the coffee instead?"

He smiles and leads me to two chairs outside. "Just to be on the safe side."

**Wow... ok! I don't know how Sven/Stephen/Stephane got in there. I remembered Gabrielle being excited about supposedly receiving flowers from someone named Sven... I kind of based it off of that. Well- that was pretty random! I was thinking about Alex Pettyfer the whole time I wrote about him :) Hope you guys liked it anyway! Review please!**

**I would consider continuing the story... I've got some okay ideas. What do you guys thinkg about me making it a story or maybe a threeshot or something? If you have any ideas, make sure to tell me too!**


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